Drawn from Life
by Tari Roo
Summary: When you draw something it lives. Steve takes up his pencil and sketch pad and draws his team. Ficlet fill for a prompt on avengersgen over on LJ


Title: Drawn from Life  
Author: tari_roo  
Rating: gen  
characters: Steve and Avengers  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I will not profit from this, and marvel owns everything. But if I did have a smidgen of say, the movies would be made faster and there would be a tv series and more gen fic  
Summary: When you draw something it lives - prompt fill for alc_fluteo on avengersgen comment fic challenge.

*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s

It started with Coulson.

Steve had only really known him for what, a day? Two? Everyone else on his team, such that it was, and within SHIELD itself, had far more of a connection to Agent Phil Coulson. Steve's had been limited to a few moments of intel gathering and awkward conversation coloured by a man meeting his boyhood hero made flesh.

With the open road in front of you and nothing but memories behind, it was hard not think about those who you had loved and lost, never quite got to know well enough, who had flitted through your life like a will 'o the wisp, there for a moment and then – gone. Returning to Stark Tower, rather than to his SHIELD apartment, Steve had found his stuff already moved and his 'new' apartment rather tastefully decorated in a style that felt familiar, homey, his few personal effects waiting for him in a box.

Maybe, actually, it had started with the little art supply store two blocks over from the Tower. One of those old holdout stores, family run and surrounded by increasingly modern and upmarket businesses. It was not a call back to 'his' NY, but drew Steve in like a moth to a flame. Established in 1974, it had just about anything an artist could desire, shelves stacked upon shelves, the lighting dim, the air thick with the lingering odours of paint, turps and half a dozen other chemicals.

Several sketch pads and a pencil set later, Steve emerged into the bright light of the 21st century pleased with the purchase, but horrified at the prices. His first few sketches had been of his old team. But that invariably led to Bucky and Peggy and Phillips and Dum Dum and Rogers barely finished the brief outline of Bucky's profile before snapping the pad shut abruptly.

Instead, late one night as he stared out at the New York skyline, its skyscrapers and lights, and buzz of life, Steve pulled the sketch pad over and started drawing. Phil Coulson. Hard, firm demeanour, but hiding an odd sense of humour. Soft, friendly eyes. A good man.

Staring at the image, tweaking some of the shading here and there, Steve sighed. No matter what century, decade, or team, or heck, even war, it hurt losing people. At least Coulson's death found meaning, at least there was that.

*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s

The common living area that everyone used when actually 'in' town and inclined to stay at Stark Tower was full of fancy gadgets and knick knacks Tony had insisted on installing. Steve was standing in front of the overly complicated coffee maker, hoping he was getting a cup of straight black coffee and not something with foam. He was fairly certain he had pressed the button for 'black coffee' and nothing else... but yesterday the darn machine had produced a frothy, creamy concoction that had tasted ok, but was not coffee. And at present the machine was making far too many noises and whirring motions for 'just' black coffee.

Steve heard Natasha enter the room, her soft tread almost inaudible, but not entirely. "Morning," he sighed and she slid next to him, eyeing out the diabolical machine. "Morning. Something wrong?"

Steve shrugged, and sighed, "I think Stark is messing with me." Natasha smirked and tapped a few random buttons, making the machine stop whirring. "Black, right?"

"Uh huh."

With a hiss reminiscent of a magician's cape flourish, a stream of very strong, definitely black coffee poured itself into his waiting cup and Natasha raised an elegant eyebrow, "If it's any consolation, he's not. You just needed to tell it what temperature, quality and strength." She pointed at the random buttons and Steve paid attention, but felt mildly irritated none the less.

"I still think he's messing with me."

"Maybe."

Somehow a wide variety of fresh, delicious pastries were always on hand in the common area, but Steve had yet to see a delivery man, woman or mystical elf. Maybe the mysterious Jarvis had more tricks up his sleeve than even Tony knew. Snagging a piece of lemon bundt cake, Rogers pulled a chair out for Natasha and himself and sat down to enjoy his coffee and the morning paper.

Natasha joined him with a strong smelling espresso, but her gaze drifted out to the broad wall to floor windows, and the early morning sunlight colouring New York. The quiet of the room, with no radio, no traffic, no machines – it barely sounded like New York. But it felt nice. And Steve found himself sneaking glimpses of Natasha, her distant gaze unfixed on the here and now but her eyes tracking the flight of birds and the movement of people in the surrounding buildings.

The paper was full of news that made sense, barely but felt too bright and white, so Steve pushed it aside and studied his cake and coffee. He felt an unexpected urge to draw, to sketch Natasha – her far away eyes and hidden steel behind soft, round cheeks, to catch that unguarded expression. He felt strangely privileged to have seen it.

Barton, Banner and Stark all came barrelling in, a blur of motion and voices. Natasha moved, swift and smooth, her smile quick but reaching her eyes belatedly, mostly when Barton nodded at her.

Later that night, as Steve sat watching the lights of the city again, he pulled his sketch book over and with strong, firm strokes outlined her face, its strength and beauty, soft edges hidden behind a lifetime of training and regrets. He drew two drawings of her. Her profile from that morning. And her fixed, unfazed expression as the Chutari attacked, ash and dirt dusting her cheek, curls in motion, mouth slightly open. Her eyes were the hardest to draw... so similar to Peggy's.

Steve left the second drawing unfinished, closing the pad slowly.

*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s

They didn't use one of the quinjets when flying back from Latveria, but an old C-130 Hercules Natasha had 'appropriated' either from some neighbouring country, or von Doom's own air force. Bruce was sleeping off his ordeal under an inordinate number of blankets, the layers of bruising covered by thick, standard issue military blankets.

Clint leant back into his seat, pressing against a steel turret from the stripped down frame of the plane, boots resting on the hard bench. The lighting inside the aircraft was poor, but he could see Stark, still suited up but missing his helmet, chatting to Tasha, who was steadily directing the plane back to the States. Tony wasn't sitting down, and probably wouldn't be for awhile. Doom sure packed a punch.

Even Cap had taken a bit of a walloping and was catching some shut eye across from him, hair all awry, a couple of cuts and bruises on his jaw. Unexpected missions were always rough, but rescues had their own set of rules and ebbs and flows of adrenalin. Coming down off a rescue was usually kinda cool, if it was a successful one. This... this was a mixed one. Bruce was safe, but the danger wasn't really over with Doom still out there, and they were going to be knee deep in the crap when they got Stateside. What with effectively invading a sovereign state and all.

But for now, Clint tried to enjoy the sense of success, of victory. The plane abruptly bucked in a patch of turbulence, and Stark made an inaudible crack to Tasha but Clint noticed what looked like loose pages tipping out of Steve's backpack on the bench next to him. Shooting a quick look at Rogers, who slept on oblivious, Clint reached out to tuck the pages back in and his fingers found a thick pad instead. Curious, Barton pulled it out enough to see the graphic of a hand drawing an eye, and realised it was a sketch book. Even more curious now, but not really wanting to pry, Clint looked at Steve again. Rogers was rocking gently in time with the motion of the plane, lost to sleep and dreams, and Barton kinda, really, wanted to have a look at the sketch pad.

His curiosity got the better of him, and Barton pulled it out, figuring a quick look wouldn't hurt and well, what on earth was Captain America doing with a sketch pad. Quietly flipping through the book, Clint smiled as pictures of their team fluttered past. He stopped at a series of brief outlines of Thor. Cap had managed to capture some classic expressions, mostly ones of confusion or delight as Thor tried to figure out Midgard eccentricities. Like the time Tony tried to explain reality TV and Thor ended up watching a marathon of The Voice with Darcy. Steve had captured that enraptured 'I can't stop watching' daze to perfection.

Somehow with just a few lines Rogers caught the moment when Thor saw Dr Foster again. Big goofy grin with something deep and rich shiny in his eyes.

Smiling himself, Clint flipped through a few more pages and stopped at the ones of Tasha. And then Coulson. Blinking, snapping out of a flash of memories, Clint fumbled for a pen and sneaking a quick look at Rogers, scribbled a brief line on Coulson's page.

_Miss you, Phil._

He took a second to stare at the picture again, smiling sadly, his scrawled note matching Tasha's. Granted, hers was in Cyrillic, but still, he figured it said something similar. Clint stuck the sketch pad back in the bag, and sat back, hoping no one had seen him. He couldn't resist glancing over at Rogers though. Steve was still asleep, face relaxed and peaceful.

Who would have figured?

*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s

The room was overly bright when Bruce woke up. The walls, curtains, bed clothes and lights were all white and clean and sterile. It wasn't the first time he'd woken up since von Doom had snatched him and the Avengers rescued him, but it was the first time he'd woken up alone.

Between his team, mostly Natasha, someone had always been in the room when he swung into consciousness. Probably to help settle him, soothe the beast, reassure him that he was not in a lab, or worse an ordinary hospital. He'd even glimpsed Thor once, head back, mouth open, fast asleep, still decked out in his armour, dwarfing the plastic chair next to the bed.

Now, though, he was on his own, and it felt nice. Peaceful. Like they were confident he was recovered enough to manage the Hulk on his own. No need for a baby sitter anymore. Stretching a little, and sitting up, Banner yawned and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table next to him. After taking a long sip, he spotted a note pad on the table. Wondering if Tony had left something for him, maybe an equation or two to keep him entertained, Bruce pulled it over.

Rather than advanced theorems on wormholes and astro physics, it was filled with pictures. Pictures of them. For a split second, Bruce wondered who was spying on the Avengers, but as he paged through the drawings, realisation dawned.

Steve.

He couldn't quite remember where he had read that Rogers could draw, or maybe Tony had mentioned it in one of his rambling monologues, but Bruce figured this was Steve's. Bruce chuckled at a picture of Clint fast asleep, feet up on a desk, head back, mouth open. It wasn't often one caught Hawkeye unawares, so Cap must have drawn it from memory. The book was nearly full, mostly with pictures of the Avengers, and the odd Shield Agent.

Bruce briefly ran his finger over a very lifelike sketch of Pepper Potts, her eyes looking at something far away. In fact, most of the pictures were like that – people in candid moments. Asleep. Looking away, caught up in memories. Smiling at something else. Watching TV. Laughing.

Snorting to himself, Banner sighed. This was Cap's digital camera. His memories. Bruce paused on one of him, bent over his computer, typing away, intent on his work. He didn't remember Steve ever seeing him like that, but that was perhaps the point.

Flipping through the pictures again, Bruce stopped and studied the first full portrait. Agent Coulson. He hadn't really known the man, having only really met him at about the same time Steve did, but nonetheless, he felt the loss. Felt the grief that sometimes rippled through his team at the mention of his name.

Snatching up the pen from his medical chart, Bruce added his own final farewell on Coulson's page.

_Thanks for believing in us._

He did however, take the time to write a few more notes on other pages.

*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s

Steve quietly closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise of whatever football game Clint and Thor were watching. Bruce was improving and Fury had stopped shouting at them, so the aftermath of their rescue was practically over. Heck, they'd even saved the day a few times in between, managing to handle the situation without the Hulk.

But Steve felt a need to just sit quietly and draw, let some of the emotions drift out of him and onto the page. He'd filled the sketch pad fairly quickly, and there were only a few pages left. He sat down on his bed, palmed the light on and grabbed the pad from his back pack.

He never really looked at the completed pictures once he was done, but as he flipped the book open to the back, a little figure on one page caught his eye. He did not remember drawing it. Opening the pad on that page, the one of Miss Potts, Steve stared at what looked like a comic of Iron Man. The little figure was flying, arms outstretched, flames streaking from his feet. Bemused, Steve turned the page and spotted another Iron Man, this time a little further along the bottom of the page.

Suspicion dawning, Steve closed the pad and slowing flipped the pages, just enough to make the bottom of the page brush against his fingers. Yep, sure enough, the little Iron Man flew across the pages, starting at one end and flying into an explosion on the last page. There were a few comments as well, on certain pages. Mostly on the more 'caught off guard' moments he'd drawn.

The little Iron Man bore Bruce's controlled style, and Tony must had drawn the little zzz's coming out of Clint's mouth. Barton had responded by drawing a funny looking cat on a page with Tony smirking, and adding the title of 'Pussy-whipped.' Not all the pages had comments, but Thor's had a whole series of 'thumbs ups' and 'Likes', which Steve knew meant something to do with the internet and facebook.

For a long moment though, Steve studied his picture of Coulson. Everyone had written something on that page. Including Pepper. How on earth had everyone seen this? Steve shook his head and sighed. It figured though, working with a team of spies, geniuses and knowitalls. Nothing was secret.

Flipping to what he thought was the next open page, Steve burst out laughing. Someone, more than likely Stark, had drawn a little Captain America stick figure. And in an untidy scrawl, had written, _'Dude. This is bordering on creepy. Buy a camera. It's much easier to black mail people that way.'_

Steve grinned and slowly drew Tony as a little kid, in oversized armour, poking a giant dragon.

*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s*a*v*e*n*g*e*r*s

The end.

AN: First Avenger fic! \o/ Suprisingly easy to write, but difficult to end. I rewatched Avengers and Captain America to get the feel right, but even if that didn't work, I still enjoyed the rewatch *smirk*


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